The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches (9 page)

The program has been on for a good fifteen minutes, and my dad has finished his sandwich by the time Quinn comes back. I haven't been able to find the enthusiasm to cheer for the old teams that are shown on the “best of baseball greats” so I am glad Quinn is here.

Quinn sits down in a chair next to me.

“Quinn, this is my father. Dad, this is Quinn,” I say.

My dad frowns at Quinn as though he needs to decide if he's okay or not.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Quinn says as he holds out his hand to my father.

My father grunts, but he shakes Quinn's hand. “You a friend of Marilee's?”

“I'm working on it,” Quinn says.

“We're just getting to know each other, Dad,” I say.

“What does that mean?” Dad says as he squints at us.

My father hasn't been a father to me for the past six years, so I can't think of one good reason why he's decided to act like one now.

“We're doing a few things together, that's all,” I say. I can't help it if my voice is a little formal. I don't like it that my father is interfering. He probably hasn't noticed that I'm twenty-five years old now.

“My intentions are honorable, if that's what you want to know,” Quinn says with a quick smile.

My dad ignores Quinn and looks at me. “What sort of things are the two of you doing?”

My only excuse for saying what I do next is that I was at the end of my patience. “We're going to church on Sunday.”

“Oh.”

Well, at least that makes my father stop asking me questions. Knowing how he feels about churches,
I'm surprised he doesn't stand up and leave. Instead, he turns to look at Quinn more closely.

“You one of those Christians?” my dad finally asks Quinn.

Quinn nods. “Sure am.”

I have to give Quinn points for bravery under fire. My dad scowls at him for a few minutes, but Quinn doesn't let his enthusiastic expression fade.

“It was the Christians who killed all those people in the Crusades,” my dad says.

“And it was Christians who put up leprosy colonies and built orphanages and visited prisons,” Quinn replies.

“I hope you don't think Marilee will be doing any of those things. She's had cancer, you know.”

“I know,” Quinn says.

“She's not as strong as she used to be,” my dad adds.

“I'm just fine,” I say. “And, if you're worried about me going to church, you can just—”

“—come with us,” Quinn interrupts. “There's always room for one more.”

“Me?” my dad says, as if Quinn has suggested Dad go swimming with sharks.

Quinn shrugs. “It would be one way for you to know what is going on in church.”

My dad frowns. “Well, I've never—I mean—church isn't—”

“I could pick you up here,” Quinn says. “Sunday at ten-thirty.”

“My dad wouldn't—” I say to Quinn. “I mean, he's not the type to—”

“I'll go,” my dad speaks up.

“You will?” I pause. “Go to church?” I pause again. “Mom goes to church.”

“Not this one surely?” my dad asks.

“Well, no, not this one,” I say. My mom goes to a small church in Arcadia. Quinn has said the church he goes to is in Pasadena.

“Well, then, somebody needs to go with you, so it may as well be me,” my dad says as he pulls the baseball cap out of his pocket and hands it to me.

“Oh. Thanks.” I don't know what else to say. I like that he finally gave me the cap, but being a father is about more than handing out headgear. If he couldn't be bothered to worry about my cancer, I'm not sure he has the right to worry about things like me and church. Still, I kind of like the thought of us going to church together.

“I won't wear a hat, though,” my dad says as he turns to Quinn. “A cap is good enough for me. I'm no executive or anything.”

“Not too many men wear hats to church anymore,” Quinn says.

My dad grunts. “They did the last time I went. Down South. I always thought it was a foolish thing. You just wear it to the door and then you have to chase it around on the pew for the rest of the time.”
He pauses. “I could wear a suit, though. I wear one of those to work most days, so that's no problem.”

“I could wear a dress,” I say.

“Anything is fine,” Quinn says. “Suits. Dresses. Slacks. It's pretty casual.”

We're halfway through the television program before I realize I have a problem. My Sunday date just evaporated. I'm still going to church with Quinn, but I'm pretty sure the Sisterhood won't count it as a date if my father comes along with us.

I'm beginning to wonder for the umpteenth time if meeting these goals is worth it. I've lost some of my zest for getting a date with the grill guy, and I doubt I'll get another date from Quinn, not after he takes me and my dad to church together. I can't imagine I'll be any fun to be with when my dad is sitting by my side. Quinn will likely be a one-function date.

I look over at Quinn. He doesn't look as if he's had a bad day so far. “Did you talk to Lizabett after you dropped me off earlier?”

Quinn shakes his head. “She's coming down with something, so she didn't feel like talking.”

“I thought she might want to talk about how disappointed she is that her ballet performance was canceled,” I say.

Quinn frowns. “The theater should never have let them book that production. They have a dozen violations to fix before they can have a performance of any kind there.”

I should stop myself right now, but I don't. “Are you the one who found the violations?”

“No, that was the captain,” Quinn says. “I only wish he'd gone over there a week ago, so the girls wouldn't be so disappointed—if they'd had a little advance notice, they could have found another place to have their ballet.”

“You should tell that to Lizabett,” I say. “That it was the captain.”

“What kind of a place do they need?” my dad asks.

I wasn't aware that my dad was following the discussion between Quinn and myself, but I can tell now that both my dad and my uncle have been listening.

“Really all they need is a large space with slick floors for dancing,” Quinn says. “I think they only sold fifty or so tickets, so it wouldn't need to be a theater. If they had a space to dance, they could put up folding chairs around it.”

“Well, there should be a place like that,” I say. I look around the diner. “If our rooms here weren't so chopped up, we'd have room to host something like that.”

“Is this for one of your Sisterhood friends?” my dad asks.

I nod. I never thought my dad knew about the Sisterhood. Of course, he's seen Becca sometimes when he's here watching a game—and maybe he's seen Carly and Lizabett once or twice, but I've never mentioned the Sisterhood to him. I look over at
Uncle Lou. He must be the one telling my dad things about me.

“When is the ballet happening?” my dad asks.

Uncle Lou must be coaching my dad. He hasn't been involved in my life since he left Mom. To listen to him now, though, you'd think he was the guy on that old television show,
Father Knows Best.
I'm beginning to wonder if he thinks that he can make up for his lack of interest in me for the past six years with a sudden intense involvement in everything surrounding me from my church date with Quinn to the Sisterhood problems.

“We could have a performance at where I work—in our main showroom,” my dad says. “We'd have to drive the show cars outside to the back lot, but we do that all the time anyway.”

“You could give Lizabett's group a place to do their ballet?” I ask.

My dad nods. “I'm pretty sure. I'd have to clear it with the general manager, but he's a good guy. If I tell him it's for my daughter and her friends, he'll understand.”

Understand what? I wonder. I'm surprised anyone at Dad's work even knows he has a daughter.

“What day would you need the place?” my dad asks.

“They had planned on doing their production this coming Wednesday,” I say.

My dad nods. “I'll ask. I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“My brothers and I would be happy to help—we could set up chairs or move cars or anything,” Quinn says. “Lizabett has been looking forward to dancing in this production, and I hate to see her disappointed.”

“I'd appreciate it, too,” I say.

I'm not used to having my father do anything for me and I'm not sure what to make of it all. I look over and see Uncle Lou beaming at us both as if he'd just taught us to fly, so I figure he's behind this sudden interest my dad has in my life. I wish I felt like beaming. I'm going to need some time to think about all of this, though, before I know what to make of it all.

T
he week after we had our crowns, Lizabett brought in another princess quote.

We giggled about what we would do if we were really princesses.

Lizabett wanted to knight her brothers and send them off to rescue other damsels in distress—with the added request that they bring her back a stuffed dragon or two. Carly said she'd build an all-pink castle by the beach in Malibu—something with turrets so she could look out to the ocean. Becca said she'd have real hot chocolate, none of the mix kind, brought to her every morning on a silver tray along with the
New York Times.
Becca likes to know any bad news right away in the morning.

Castles and chocolate were too rich for me, and I had no desire for any kind of news early in the morning, so I said I'd settle for having a butler. The others teased me about why I would want a butler, but I didn't tell them. In the books I had read, a butler always seemed to stop any unpleasantness at the door. He didn't let trouble into his mistress's house. I figured a good butler could do that in my life. When I thought about it some more, I realized a butler was the closest thing to a father a grown woman can have and still be totally independent.

 

It wasn't until after my father and Quinn left that Becca came through the doors to The Pews. I must admit things had been so hectic I hadn't given a second thought to the fact that she hadn't answered my call this morning telling her that Carly's cat was still lost. As it turns out, Becca has problems of her own.

Listen to them.

“I can't believe it,” Becca says. She sits down at the counter in The Pews and I place a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. It's about nine-thirty at night, and there's no one sitting close to us. Becca is speaking in a low voice anyway. “There just isn't anyone more suited to that internship than me. I swear there isn't. They practically admitted as much when I called.”

Becca takes a minute to just stare at the glass of iced tea.

“You called them?” I ask just to keep Becca talking. “The judge herself?”

“No, I couldn't reach the judge,” Becca admits as she looks at me instead of the tea. She looks miserable as she puts her hand around the glass. “The only one who would talk to me was the law clerk who runs the internship application process. And he as much as admitted that I was the best candidate. He said there had been only one thing standing between me and getting the internship.”

“Well, if it's only one thing, maybe you can change it and—”

“I'm not getting the internship,” Becca says. Her knuckles tighten on the glass she's holding. “They're discriminating against me.”

“Discriminating?”

Becca nods and lifts the glass of iced tea to her lips. She takes a drink before continuing. “Of course, they won't admit it.”

“They can't discriminate against you,” I say. By now I am indignant. “That's not fair. Besides, a judge should be open to all religions.”

Becca grunts as she sets her glass down on the counter. “They're not discriminating against me because I'm Jewish. It's because of the cancer.”

“Oh.” This is even more shocking to me. “Can they do that?”

“Of course they can. They can't come out and tell me that's the reason I wasn't chosen, but what else
could it be? I have a 4.0 in my classes. The law clerk admitted none of the other candidates have a 4.0 average. Plus, I'm on the debate team. I'm perfect for the internship, and they're not going to give it to me.”

Becca's jaw is set.

“Maybe you misunderstood the law clerk,” I say. “Maybe he just can't tell you who's gotten the internship yet, and so he's stalling.”

“They gave the internships to a Marcia Richards and a Paul Stone. There's only the two. The congratulation letters have already gone out. The consolation letters go out tomorrow. I'll be getting one of those.”

“But how would they even know you had cancer?”

Becca taps her fingers against the counter. “That friend of my grandfather who knows the judge called and talked to her. He told her about the cancer—said he'd recommend me for anything because he admired me for the way I faced adversity. The law clerk told me that. I suppose he thought it'd make me feel better.”

“But, that's good, isn't it? You faced adversity. I would think the judge would want that in an intern.”

“The judge wants interns who will live long enough to use what they learn in her court in career situations, and that's after they live long enough to go through law school.”

“You're going to live through law school—and longer. You could outlive those other two guys by years and years.”

Becca gives me a tight smile. “We don't know that, though, do we?”

“Of course we don't know,” I say. Will cancer always haunt us? “But no one really knows how long they have to live. Those other two don't know how long they will live, either.”

“It's the odds,” Becca says. “The judge was just going with the odds.”

“You listen to me, Rebecca Snyder,” I say. “You're a fighter. You've beaten the odds. You know what you need to do to stay healthy. You're already ten steps ahead of most people our age.”

Becca shrugs. “Tell it to the judge.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. “Somebody needs to ask the judge or her law clerk or whoever is in the know about this. They can't just go disqualifying people because they don't like their health histories. It can't be right. I'm going to call them.”

“They've already gone home for the weekend,” Becca says.

“They'll be back at their desks on Monday, and if you're not going to call them, I am.”

“I'll call,” Becca says. “Besides, they probably wouldn't talk to you anyway. You'd have to be one of the applicants to get them to talk about the internship at all.”

“Well,” I say as I put my arm around Becca's shoulders, “I don't want you to worry. Once you talk to them, they'll have to add a third internship for the summer.”

Becca leans into my hug, and I pat her back. Then she hiccups. She always does that when she's trying not to cry.

“I wish we had the Sisterhood meeting tonight,” Becca says.

“We could call an emergency meeting,” I say. There have been several times during the years when we've called emergency meetings. Usually when we do that, we don't get any knitting done. We just focus on whatever the problem is.

Becca shakes her head. “I'll be okay. I just need to call them again on Monday. That law clerk knows why I didn't get selected. And if I press him hard enough, he'll tell me the truth.”

“You'll let me know when you've talked to him?”

Becca nods. “You can count on it.”

Once Becca has talked about her frustrations, she feels better. We talk a little before she decides to do a little shopping and come back to the diner later. She had told Lizabett earlier that she would go to the baseball game with everyone else tomorrow, so she wanted to get some new tennis shoes.

“I'm going to play if they need someone to even out the teams,” Becca says.

I had almost forgotten about the ball game when
Quinn mentioned it before he left. He is planning to stop by here and pick me and my dad up around eleven in the morning. That's right. My dad has decided to join us at baseball, too, which pretty well disqualifies the baseball game as a date, as well.

Oh, well, I'll have to get some real dates, I guess. In the meantime, I need to get my baseball caps ready for the firemen to use on the table they are setting up. I have most of my caps in my office here, but I'll want to bring in the ones from my room at home, too.

It's almost 10:00 p.m. and we close the diner at eleven on Friday nights. Most of our business is from the lunch and early dinner crowd, so we decided long ago that eleven was late enough for us to keep things open even on the weekends. On weeknights, we close at ten.

“Lizabett said the grill guy is going to the game tomorrow, too,” Becca says as she grins at me. She's finished her shopping. “Didn't I tell you he was friendly? He fits right in with the rest of us.”

“He probably just wants to do something for the kids, too,” I say.

I am careful to keep my voice neutral. I know Becca wants Randy, the grill guy, to ask me out, but I don't think that will happen. If he asks anyone out, it will probably be Carly.

It's too bad Carly and I can't switch goals. I could go to the pound and find a cat that would suit me,
and Carly could get all the dates she needed from the grill guy himself. Carly and Randy didn't stop by the diner after I came back, but I got an e-mail message from Carly saying that her cat was still up in the trees around the house. Carly was so worried about her cat getting hungry that she left opened cans of tuna at the bases of several trees before she went inside for the night. She made sure the trees were in her front lawn, however, so that there could be no question about littering.

I go into the kitchen to tell Uncle Lou I am leaving.

“Get Carlos to walk you to the parking garage,” Uncle Lou says from the counter. He is chopping up onions for a soup he is making for tomorrow. Carlos washes dishes at The Pews and is always there until closing.

“Becca's walking to the garage, too, so we'll be fine,” I say.

If it's after nine at night Uncle Lou has insisted someone walk me to the parking garage ever since I started working for the diner. He does the same for the waitresses.

“But thanks for worrying,” I say as I walk over to Uncle Lou and give him a quick hug.

“What's that for?” Uncle Lou says as he looks up from his onion.

“Just because,” I say as I leave the kitchen.

Becca has a bit of a drive to get home to the
Fairfax district, and I live several miles from The Pews, so we don't stop any place on our walk to the parking garage. The night is dark, but every window along Colorado Boulevard is lit up. We turn right at The Cheesecake Factory and cross the street to go into the parking structure. I'm on the third floor and Becca is on the roof so we agree to both take the elevator to the roof, and she'll drive me down to my car.

I have to admit I am tired tonight. I still haven't figured out my dad, but I do know one thing for sure. I'm not going to tell my mother that dad and I are planning to go to church together on Sunday. She'd have people praying over us all night if she thought anything like that was happening.

I thank Becca when she drops me off at my car. She waits for me to get inside my car and start my engine before she continues to the exit.

My drive home is quiet. I always like driving at night. I do some of my best thinking in the black of night—maybe because there are so few distractions.

So why is my dad taking this sudden interest in me? Oh, I'm pretty sure Uncle Lou has talked to him. Uncle Lou must have talked to him before, so why has it made a difference now? My dad managed to skate through all my cancer years without getting involved in my life, so it's a little late, don't you think?

I'm still fretting about my dad when I pull my car
into the driveway. My mother rents half of a duplex on Walnut Avenue in eastern Pasadena. It's the same house we lived in when my dad lived with us. I wonder all of a sudden why my mother has stayed here. We could have moved years ago when she got that promotion at the bank. She could even buy a place if she wanted. It must be strange for her in this place with memories of Dad all around.

I barely finish asking the question before I remember the times when my mother has asked me how I feel about where we live. I always told her I was comfortable here. I wonder if that's why she's never moved.

Of course, I realize, that is why we've never moved. I wonder how many other sacrifices Mom has made for me without making a big deal about them.

And look at me. I can't even look Mom in the eye tonight when she asks me to go to church with her on Sunday. She always asks me so faithfully, and she's actually pretty nice about it. She doesn't make me feel guilty for not going with her or anything. She might tell me the topic of the sermon or some special hymn that's planned, but she doesn't nag. Really, I should have gone with her a long time ago. It's a small thing to do after she's done so much for me.

If I weren't already going to church with Quinn and Dad, I'd go with Mom this Sunday. Speaking of which…

“What's the name of your church again?” I ask, just to be sure there is no confusion on my part. I cannot even begin to imagine Mom's reaction if my dad and I walked into her church by mistake on Sunday. On second thought, I can imagine. But she confirms that it's not Quinn's church.

I look at my mom and I see a face that has been around me all my life. It's not a beautiful face, but it's a nice face. Brown hair with some gray in it. Green eyes behind glasses. It's a face that softens when she looks at me.

My mom would be hurt if she saw Dad and me come into church with someone else—and, with us not even having had the courtesy to tell her that we were coming. I promise myself I will tell Mom about the two of us going to church just as soon as we have done it. I don't want to get her hopes up in case something happens and we don't go.

I give Mom a hug just like the one I gave Uncle Lou earlier. She wonders what it is for just like he did.

I shrug. “No special reason.”

Well, what can I say? That I'm finally growing up?

I go to bed feeling pretty good considering I'm bringing down the average for the Sisterhood in terms of meeting goals. Going to church with Quinn and my dad might not count as a date, but it's a big step for me and I'm glad I'm finally taking it. I
wonder if God will remember me and all those things I said about Him when I had my cancer. If He does, I hope He has a sense of humor. It would help if He knew a little about knitting, too.